


Chasms

by bobababy



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Chihimondo - Freeform, Chimondo, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2046495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobababy/pseuds/bobababy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oowada's used to dedicating himself to his gang, but when he realizes his feelings for Fujisaki, he's made to question if he's truly happy with how things are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the entirety of Chapter 2.
> 
> The story takes place in a no despair universe where the school life of mutual killings didn't happen. Chihiro's secret is protected underneath the school, so he's allowed to wear the female uniform for his own feeling of security.

Prologue

Black swallowing orange, the hum of cars and conversations you just couldn’t make out, the hours rolled, seconds prodding the restless’s temple. It was almost curfew, and nearing curfew closer and closer without a will to head back just yet, he shrugged to the idea of skipping out on his promise. Enraged, he found dukes to stuff against the chasms of brick walls, wrists to twist and wind and drop them breathless to concrete shadowed by looming buildings.

Though in an unexpected manner, plagued by rue, his own bones crashed to the ground more than he wanted. Reluctant at first to accept it, he deemed it a consequence. Instead of hacking by surprise of every push and jab, he sighed against the floor, and blinked as though washed with weariness and tempted by sleep. But he wasn’t tired, and certainly not inferior in the pull of his bones. But he was sorry— so why was he wasting time here?

Discharged, he throws punches to their chins and rams them to the chasms, before straddling his bike and veering place to the academy.

Chapter 1

[txt:] fujisaki , can you open the front entrance for me ?

‘Jimmying’ the handles would do no service. Belated curfew in mind, he didn’t need to be in more trouble.

His ears more pert by his battles, he hears the crack and the whistle of one of the windows sliding open. His neck craned in bashfulness, his fists pocketed while his thumbs squirmed.

Suckling his lower lip, he squints through the oncoming wind at the boy who lurched over his dorm’s sill. “Oowada-kun!” His eyes squeeze tight and his nose wrinkles, waving his hand. _Be quieter please, Jesus._ “Oh— I’ll get the front door for you.”

He could barely see through the faded day, but the smaller looked quite tired after throwing his hip into the door so it would budge enough for a push. Oowada slips by him and whirls his nightgown guise, shrinking his chin low as if the blood speckling his face were not evident. He breathes through his teeth as Fujisaki twirls his key, and stops to hear the swipe of his dorm’s carpet as his door dipped in. Without a word, he had closed his door, and the halls howled with the churn of the air. And that didn’t really sit right.

“Fujisaki,” he speaks to the pane as his boiled knuckles hammered slow at the door. Upon the gaze granted by a crack of the door, he stumbles a bit with his intent, and tightens his shoulders. “Uh, listen.” Out of interest his eyes roll further up with a bob of his head. “I uh, ‘m pretty shit with this cleaning biz so. I wanna ask if you can help.” _G'job on the apology, asshole._

It was painful to watch this trial, see exactly why this was so important to him, why there was a huge, gaping flaw in abandoning him. He couldn’t do things on his own— commonplace things, no less, without grunting or wrinkling his face. He watched as he lifted his rolling chair over a cluster of wires, bending and threatening the chair’s crash just to see below his dress’s hem, see his feet walk without tripping. He pushed his chin to his sodded shoulder as he soaked a cloth under water, watching everything he did if he needed help. But he felt, in a way, rude in doing this, so when Fujisaki lifted his head to his mirror, to stare and pick at the day’s mascara so it wouldn’t smear in his sleep, he would quickly turn back to tap his fingers on his thighs.

The smaller sat with a sigh, across from the other in a chair he didn’t quite like for work at the screen, his lap becoming soaked with the balled cloth as he stared a moment at the face of the restless, at the blood that dried above his eyelid and kept it from opening all the way. And when he coughed, he blinked, finally, scratching at his own cheek. “It’s uh, not mine. It’s theirs.” _Yeah, keep doing this smart shit. Tell ‘im yer covered in the blood of some asses ya threw._ Regardless, his fingers traced his jawline, until they came to his thin chin, making him lean a bit more forward as he pushed and rubbed the soak against his cheeks and eyes.

When suds didn’t cloud him he either viewed the smaller’s face, or the intrusion of one of his legs between the large part of his. He noticed, though clearly fatigued, that Fujisaki was being gentle, that it was going to take more scrubs with the way he prodded the other’s face. He noticed how Fujisaki’s eyes wandered when he met with his, and he couldn’t tell if it was really out of fear or to his liking. He noticed how, in touch, he really was a boy. The curve of his fingers, the shape of his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone’s flesh. It was masculine in making, yet petite, and gentle in service. He wanted to note maybe it was romantic, how angelic he was in a stare with his gown draped and spooning between his open legs, how he tried to mask the form of his shoulders with the airiness of his short sleeves, but the absence of a bra made the travel of his skin anticipate the pectorals of a male. He didn’t mean to mark interest in his reason for cross dressing, he didn’t mean to mark affinity for him in feminine garbs, but Fujisaki was beautiful.

He hadn’t even realized that Fujisaki had pulled away, and still he felt the crust of blood above his eye. He wasn’t finished, clearly, but he had pulled away and hidden the cloth within his hands. Until he noticed the worry of Fujisaki’s face, he shied and made to scratch his nose in the bend of his own arm. “‘M sorry,” he coughed, his eyes shutting tight as he rolled his head back and stretched his throat. _Finish it._ “Um. About everything.” Each arm rested on a knee before his head collapsed between them, blowing this difficulty through pursed lips. “I know… getting stronger is important to you… and tonight it jus’ wasn’t on my mind. I was with the gang ’n… I forgot. ‘M sorry.”

Oowada couldn’t part from staring at the floor, couldn’t even bear the look of Fujisaki’s fingers squirming and delving into the cloth out of a nervous situation, or his feet hooking themselves slowly behind the front legs of his chair. But he felt them move, knew how they moved and how there was one final fiddle of his fingers before his shoulders rolled back. “Oowada-kun… I forgive you… you know.” Fujisaki tilted his head, hoping this gesture would welcome him back. “You’re here because… you’re the best at what you do… running your gang. If… If you miss training time with me sometimes to be with them… it’s fine. You have to keep your title, and… you’re proud of it. I don’t want you to feel like I’m something that needs immediate tending. I can do things on my own… I… I would just like you to be there.”

_I would, too._

“No, no. I know ya can… ’n…,” he says, slapping a hand to his knee and sitting up with the other wrapped around his mouth. Catching Fujisaki’s face, full of warmth and cheeks that were perked by a smile, he finds his own lips quibbling. He couldn’t understand the sincere forgiveness, the spared sympathy for the likes of him, who somehow found a better pastime in kneeing men who hollered for a fight than spotting Fujisaki as he huffs and gasps as he holds for pushups… and watching him swab his brows as he hangs over the water fountain, breathless. 

“And?”

_Jesus._

“’N, uh, shit,” he scoffs to wipe his pleasures from his face, but that didn’t entirely water the fire in his stomach. The fact remained, if not evident at this point in their broken conversations, that Oowada loved Fujisaki, and it brought grasp to his ribs and a splinter to his vessels to even think he would rather be elsewhere than with him, past the death of one single day of every week. He wasn’t capable of keeping this, of keeping Fujisaki at his bend and at constant crave to throw his arms around his neck. He thought it better to have him in his range, thought it happier to watch him scribble at a desk a few seats ahead of him, snap pencils every time he giggled and tinker around with his bike every time he bounced on his heels in utter joy of something that wasn’t him. He didn’t deserve Fujisaki, didn’t deserve even the simple idea of picking him up from everyone else and carrying him like a lover would. 

But he wanted to be the one to make him laugh and the one to make him spring up with light and if ever he found he was able, he’d give him rides on the bike he’d be so constant on. The cloth splayed on the carpet, Fujisaki’s hands clamped close as he gripped them, unknowing for a moment how the setup became, and how the smallest gesture of his feelings could fill the other’s face a shade extravagant from his choice of pale. He swallowed, the usual spit of these words threatening to burst out in shouts. He could feel the gulp of each coil try their might on his hands, which squeezed so hard he could barely feel the tremble of Fujisaki’s nimble fingers. Breath after breath and not a single utterance or question, or plea to be gentler on flesh, just move after move of Oowada’s legs as he tried to edge to the rolling chair’s marge. Instead it slid so his parted legs included the fix of his between them, so his head had to bow beneath his shoulders as he looked at the other in what others may deem the test of a threat against him. Again the words swell, and he could feel their coming in his heavy breath, so he spared the tilt, the sink of his breath in his lungs. He crushed his lips to Fujisaki’s, their noses uncomfortably at wrinkle, the whine of his tiny voice sounding a throated hum in his before they quickly departed.

Again and again this went on, unable to calmly speak meaning, yet unable to retract and take every kiss back and take him and this bad blood to the shower head of his own room. Oowada could only bury his doings in the wisps of hair, where he laid wide-eyed in for the remainder of the night as Fujisaki made a crevice of his arm and chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been some time since I added a new chapter, but you guys were excited and I was too, so it's finally here!
> 
> I'm sorry if this chapter doesn't really capture the extent of how descriptive I can be, and I also apologize if this chapter is on the short side, but this will be the addendum of establishing the plot of this fic, and then we'll really get the ball rolling on this. Promise.
> 
> Also, as something to look forward to, we'll be looking more on Chihiro's perspective in the next few chapters!

He had gone to classes without him. Had he bled and ached in a room that was his own, the stunt wouldn’t be so disheartening. He woke with a score of blood on the pillow he was lent, his side away from where the smaller’s figure had lulled after each smooch. Time waxed until class was unimportant, showering in a room that still wasn’t his more pleasurable than a back row seat to Fujisaki’s head. Upon finishing this feat of squirting product in quarters and mashing it in the coils of oil and sweat, he clicked and tore at soda and packed bread, scarfed those down, and swathed himself tight in the violet’s bed. 

It was childish to steal in passive anger, be upset over kissing a boy who wasn’t going to wake him up in the morning, or at least leave some note of grievances. He thought it maybe a bit overbearing to harbor his brooding in the room he had been let in and never once shooed, to grow angrier at things that existed in his room just for being representative of him. The tiny, blue grip barbells that rested by the foot of his bed, to name a trifle, as if to hide from company but still exist for his memory. He didn’t remember if this display of carelessness were evident to the side of a bleeding cheek, but garbs hung from a propped drawer, some speckled in some cute pattern. 

His plait began to stick to his brow and the dance of dust in the afternoon light became disinteresting. He wandered to his chests, lifted garments that peeked and took light, and glared at them until he was embarrassed. On which, he stuffed them back into their crevices and rammed the pull back in place.

4:32 PM. The door budged, the boy in his fluffed frock blinking at the wet male who stretched about his bed. Flushing, he ducks his head to help his bag to the floor before he freed the buttons atop his bodice.

“Y’ didn’t even wake me.”

His plucking paused. “I-I did wake you. You said, ‘Leave me alone.’”

And now _he_ flushed to remember he did say that, and colored even darker on knowing he turned just to see the crack of the bathroom, and watching Fujisaki help himself out of his gown before his vision waned. He wiped underneath his nose with his thumb. “I didn’ mean it like that.” _Obviously you don’t—_ _you’re still in his room._ “Sorry, alright?”

“It’s fine…,” he said, peeling the blazer from his shoulders and arms. “I’m just surprised… that… that you stayed.” He swallowed, but covered it with his hand as he pulled at what went about his throat: the ribbon, his buttons. “I thought you would have been gone… by the time I came back.” He looked quite disoriented, his footing something uncertain and his hands curling as though he wished undressing in front of him were something more casual— at least so he’d have something to do in what seemed to be a pause, a suckle at the sore lip.

“I don’t really have an excuse.” He freed his lower lip and wiped at his nose again. Fujisaki looked to almost be ready to start at anything that wasn’t that, but because it was, his chin tucked down and he turned for the bathroom to finish undressing.

Annoyingly, this lingered, this skirting about the subject of how he kissed him and no one knew. And it almost came to feel Fujisaki wanted that same, ignorant bliss. Oowada found it incredibly difficult to just elude how he saw Fujisaki, how he knew quite well he lusted after the boy’s frame and how he craved to dip and crush for his face on cracking through a crowd. It was truly a trial on seeing him laugh, and nothing short of infuriating when he saw him act so cautiously. He knew he worked delicately because that was what he was told and imposed on, but he wasn’t fragile, he wasn’t glass. He was something strong marrow caved around, some being that burned a fire in secret that seemed to flare when he looked at _him_.

On carding visage from him, Fujisaki’s voice dipped and broke in chokes, his hands clasped to his heart in a frequent turned from often. He moved in the hallways with his hands so, as if to hold his body from crumbling and weeping. Always looking to be on the marge of crying, this was something more dangerous a sight to he who resigned on the panes of classroom doors. He’d watch as he would break a hand from his chest and reach for the bannister, split his lips to ready calling out, but the boy would descend much quicker than he could think of what to say.

 **[txt:]** so are we meeting at all for training ?

 **[txt:]** like ? at all or

 **[txt:]** I thought that maybe you didn’t want to anymore.

He typed for a bit, but minutes passed and nothing was sent.

 **[txt:]** i mean i do but really only if you want to

 **[txt:]** I do! It’s just I’m a little confused on how we left off.

He was typing for a few minutes again, but he did send something.

 **[txt:]** You know, the other day. That one night.

 **[txt:]** we dont really have to think about it if you dont wanna

 **[txt:]** But I do. I think that’s the problem.

 **[txt:]** i dont rely think this is spposed to be on the phone

 **[txt:]** Then the boy’s changing room? I was going to go anyway, regardless if you wanted to join.

He couldn’t decide if it was stance that revealed how much he leered at the smaller, or if it was by anger he was guided to a sort of glare. Enraged, truly, by how the violet shook until he had to curl his neck or else stare at his stomach as he spoke. But he colored, not because Fujisaki himself was annoying in those fervent “Um”s, but because he too couldn’t quite put spit with what his mind paced.

He thought, if for a night, he could _taste_ Fujisaki, and fit him in the bows of his arms as he lay, he’d be over the fanatics that raced, and he’d no longer pardon an eye to a clad shoulder and wouldn’t stare as he undressed. He thought, maybe, he could win at the lust bound to a lack of actual bonds. He could shrink what slowed him, dragged his face against the rubble because the feeling of betrayal whirled him face first. Yet it was as he feared it would get. He fell in love with Fujisaki. He could never dream of _fucking_ him and leaving with clever simper.

His cheek stung, his waist gripped by the bows of Fujisaki. Audible was the violet’s whimpering, stirring was the way his head snuggled into his stomach. He could feel how fat the tears became, how the voice that bubbled loud in his throat was instead draped by chokes, remnants of embarrassing disbelief. Unhinged, the timid unraveled as he himself was torn till his innards dripped. His legs collapsed until he was within his neck, kissing and groping about the soft throat, his fingers splayed about his small. “Kid,” he’d mumble. “Kid, kid… kid…” 

Ailing limbs retired, bettering found in the night’s toll on the violet’s room, where kisses and smacks of tongue were fervent, and so too were thumbs to kill those rolling beads.


End file.
